


A Tale of Two Towns

by The Governess (Beatrice_Sank)



Series: Last of the Inked [3]
Category: All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket, Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Clash of Classes, Did they fall, Ecology, Go ahead Harry your Horcruxe is in another castle, Good people Good Intentions, How can one say "on with the story" anyway, I consider it a fix-it mind you, Initials because you know, Loss of Innocence, Multi, Oh this is meta by the way, Politics, Post-Series, Result of roleplay and elaborate headcanon, Snicket needs diversity (and a lot more than what I did too), Stain'd-by-the-Sea, Terrible Aftermaths, Were they push, children heroes make terrible adults, f/f - Freeform, for V., how did we end up here, missing the sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrice_Sank/pseuds/The%20Governess
Summary: It is sad and melancholic and bitter, it is a metaphorical tale. We used to be heroes, but now we're stained. Sometimes we feel like sealess children. A long way from home.[All the Wrong Questions/ An Unfortunate Series of Events fandom. After Lemony's departure, Stain'd-by-the-Sea was left to grow, on its own.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, my little mind game with BlueFloyd is kind of over, so now the whole world can learn about what became of Stain'd-by-the-Sea and its inhabitants.   
> Stay tuned, for this is part of a bigger world-building project (see the rest of the series).

The wind was howling, the air carried scents of salt and sulfur. This last smell came out as the freshest, youngest of the two, for it had only been around for two decades of sorts, when the sea breeze was nothing but an old and dusty trail, imprinted on the atmosphere like the trace of a seal.

C. had done a remarkable job with the factory, and work had sprung, plenty of work. In the euphoria of the first scientific break-through, they had rescued the remaining octopuses, founded the Invisible Aquarium in the old Academy, and even took out to study the weeds. It was brave of them to try. There even were discussions of bringing the sea back. C. began to buy every abandoned estate to turn them into laboratories and chemical warehouses. With the first benefits, they refurnished the library with books by Snyder, Dahl and Lowry. With the second benefits, they hired a new librarian. The first thing she did when she arrived was hanging a small bell to the library door.

With fluxes of new workers flooding the once fading town, the Bellerophon taxi business flourished. Their car could be seen at every hour, day or night, meandering through the freshly populated streets. First, they received a lot of tips in science books, for the factory attracted chemists and biologists, who wanted to learn the secrets of the astonishing ink and help to its development. Soon, manual workers were needed. Ink Inc. sent calls for unpackers, electricians, plumbers, glass-blowers, steelworkers. They came by hundreds, they came by thousands. Most of the former citizens came back to their hometown, others had never heard of it before, but settled there anyway. Times had been hard for some years then, and this burst in employment was seen as nothing short of a miracle. M. began to list newcomers, to help dispatching them to positions that matched their abilities, and later to assign homes to new families. By then, C. had been able to place offers on large parts of the empty lots nobody was interested in anyway. J. was working hard to feed them all: Hungry's was more than crowded at lunch, when the delicate chemical processes allowed for a break. Hungry herself was grumpier than ever, but J. took to experiment in homegrown vegetables, using ethically collected octopus's ink as a fertilizer with splendid results. At some point, they ran out of available houses, and barracks had to be built. After business hours, the library bell kept on ringing, and the new librarian on ordering more books to satisfy the avid readers, who often came as the result of a free taxi tip. M. began to write serials she printed with the old press in the lighthouse, with the help of some good-willed volunteers. She sold them for two cents in the barracks and workshops, to provide distraction to the workers. Her Most Mysterious Murders series soon became extremely popular, as well as the Adventures of Young Cap Boy, the tale of some young, courageous orphan who intended to save his town, no matter how damaged and corrupted. Young Cap Boy was surrounded by trusted friends who helped him in his task, and his worst enemy was Slippery Billie, a dark girl always sporting a beret. Though she said nothing of it, no one ever saw C. reading an issue.

One summer afternoon, the whole town regrouped to see the Knights's Dilemma, covered with paper ribbons that were left-overs of the press, descending slowly from the hills towards the city hall under a blazing sun. O. had worked on the foldings for many days. She wanted to be of help and, from table ornaments to invitation cards, it was all artistically put. She had even offered to make C. a paper veil, and the result made lace look cheap. C. had settled a desk for her in her office, and she had worked while she was attending to the factory business, taking measures from time to time directly from her head. After a few days, the foldings appeared less focused.

C. and J. were married in pinstriped suits, with M. and P. as witnesses (Polly Partial having been discarded as unreliable). The bells rang all around Stain'd-by-the-Sea, and everyone wished it would be the last time, over a joyous end.

 

 

And then it went on. C. didn't have the heart to leave the town so soon, when the factory was just beginning to grow. There was no honeymoon. They took a few days in Wuthering Heights Cottage, and J. baked some honey moon crescents.

The ink sold well. The first clients were, naturally, children, who saw at once the advantages of owning an efficient way of communicating in complete secrecy. Teachers were having a hard time controlling the amount of seemingly blank paper circulating their classroom. Then they sold to companies who needed to pass confidential memos, top-drawer hotels who wanted to be discrete about their clients' identity, and especially to libraries who had to index their stock as precisely and as conveniently as possible without altering the books. The Bellerophon brothers began to deliver orders, sometimes out of town. C. advised them to ask for solid money, and not only literary tips. She said they would be able to pay for the best doctors, to cure their father at last. They looked at each other and shrugged, lowering their heads, and began to set prices.

Some mysterious looking persons would go in and out of town, buying ink for private use in alarmingly large quantities. At some point, their buying rhythm evolved. There were now two groups of mysterious strangers, carefully avoiding each other when coming to town. M. eyed them with something like resentment. Soon, Young Cap Boy was confronted to the Invisible Society.

The lighthouse had always been a good watching point. But anyone hardly came by. Maybe it had something to do with the dusty, unoccupied rooms full of sheet-covered familiar shapes. M.'s father had been enhanced by the town's awakening, but had refused to take the journal back into business. He didn't read much anymore. Instead, he took long, daily walks in the Clusterous Forest. He left in the morning and was rarely home before dawn, leaving M. to her writing and printing, and watching the town from above, wondering.

Sometimes, she went to some workshop or another, grabbed a stool and read out loud for the unpackers, the electricians, the plumbers or the chemists. And they all dreamed of adventures, while carrying, fixing wires, forking pipes or measuring tubes.

With her parents long gone to the city, C. inherited the Knight mansion. She installed Zada and Zora in the east wing and forbid them to clean anything anymore. She told them they were family, that now they could afford maids and cooks and gardeners, that they needn't bothering themselves with that kind of things. She bought them pinstriped cloths, instead of the black dresses and aprons they had worn for most of their life. Cleaning, cooking and gardening had been their occupations for decades as well, along with taking care of Miss Knight. But Miss Knight was taking care of herself now, taking care of them too, and consequently they were left wandering in the many, many rooms of the mansion, looking contritely at the bored maid who dusted the mantelpieces without any gusto.

The workers were now numerous enough that J. couldn't feed them anymore. He asked C. to hire more gardeners, to convert some warehouses into fields, so that he could grow more vegetables, but she said this could not be a priority. She said they hardly had enough space as it was. They still needed to develop in order to extend the lasting properties of the ink. She said they could import more from the distant city. J. protested, but she promised to try and come up with a better formula for his fertilizer.

Some scientists and engineers were still working on a way to bring back the sea. O., who assisted C. in every way she could, worked along with them. As one who had lost many things to the flames, she had always found the town lacked water more than anything. Their progresses were slow, but steady. Somehow, O. still found she had a lot of free time. So she undertook making a statue of C., for her own distraction.

 

One day, C. was contacted by a distant city, one that stood across the long-gone sea. The message said times had be troubled, that dissension had arisen, that dissension soon turned into divisions, divisions evolved into conflicts, and conflicts grew into war, before anyone could really stop and think. To restore order, secrecy was of the essence, and they needed their whole stock of ink, impressive quantities, and even more in the following months. They were offering the most gigantic sum of money C. had ever seen printed. They said that otherwise, they would fade.

She summoned the Factory Council. It reunited all those who had been there since the beginning, back to a time when the Factory had been all but a room full of tubes and bottles and bubbles and smoke in one of the many corridors of the Knight mansion. One delegate for each of the major professions had been added. The librarian was also present. No one could think of a rational reason why, but indistinctly, they all felt she should be there. Oddly, she insisted on ringing the bell she had brought with her every time someone was to speak.

The bell rang, and C. began to explain the situation. The only noise that could be heard was M. frantically typing with what could be discerned as a growing sense of horror. The bell rang. P said he didn't see why they should sell ink to the cities, that they couldn't possibly take side in a war that they knew nothing of, that they should at least be able to decide which side was right before considering offering any help. The bell rang and C. said they weren't offering but selling, and that the money could accomplish everything they couldn't. They could save the town for good, they could offer accommodation for everyone, and extend. She said that the city was fading, and that they were its only hope. J. asked the librarian for the bell, and said that, in that case, they should send the ink without taking the money, that it was only natural to do it for free if they needed it to survive, that there were things you could not sell. The bell rang, and C. explained that, of course, she would have done it at once, had the quantities required been any lesser. But this was all their stocks, and theirs stocks were all they had. They could not afford sending them without second-thoughts, not anymore: they had a whole town to be responsible for, hundreds of people who were counting on them. She admitted she knew nothing of which side was the right one, but that had been a trick question in the past, and at that moment she was, as much as possible, acting on Stain'd-by-the-Sea side.

For a couple of minutes, they all remembered, and the bell rang no more.

But then, the plumbers delegate, who had bad memories of his own, took it and said his grand-father had fought in the last war, all those years ago: he didn't remember on which side exactly, but what he did remember was the old man saying “Never ever ever more, sonny. T'is a meddle, oh, for sure.” Saying it for years, for decades, over his half-missing chin. The bell rang, and O., who had taken a look at C. and worried, said that there would never be any solid peace in Stain'd as long as poverty would linger. Presently, there were too many arrivals, and they had trouble adjusting, when everyone should live in their own house and enjoy sufficient space. The bell then rang many times, for an intricate debate developed to establish what was to be considered sufficient space, both ideally and pragmatically, taking into account family sizes, professions, possessions, animals, potential illnesses, age, incompatibilities of characters, singing voices and astrological signs. At some point, after an hour or so, the librarian held the bell, rang it, and began a long, strange speech, that nobody really understood where she evoked old horror movies, willows, Philip Larkin, silent knots, some snowmen and crickets. When she finished, everyone kept silent, and then they all shrugged, sensing that it was probably a normal speech to make for someone who spent her days surrounded by books by Snyder, Dahl and Lowry. M. said she didn't think they should do it at all, and C. said that it was just ink, for God's sake. M. said she didn't know why they were even summoned if the decision was already taken. J. said it wasn't like that; and C. said it was very late, that everyone was probably nervous and tired, that they should vote. She voted in favor. J. voted in favor. P. voted against. S. voted in favor (P. eyed him). M. voted against. The plumbers delegate voted against. The steelworkers delegate voted in favor. The chemists delegate voted in favor. The unpackers delegate voted against. The librarian voted against. And finally, O. voted in favor. The motion was adopted, and they all went back home unchanged. The news spread into town, and soon they had to work harder than usual, to provide the extra gallons that were to be sent as soon as possible on the new “land boats” C conceived. The old Stain'dian float, who was once glorious and flourishing, had been stranded for long in the Clusterous Forest, slowly becoming the last safe place for birds, sea bugs, various shells, and the remaining life forms that weren't as silent and still as the dark weeds. C. had a team of workers bringing back the wrecks to the factory and fixing them, adding some giant wheels that were linked to the tiller. They would be fast enough on land, taking advantage of the wind while using the sail as a propeller.

The departure day came, and some people were required to go and drive the land boats to the fading city. J. said he wanted to see things for himself, that he was still thinking about the things that were said that night, and that maybe, maybe he was beginning to understand what the librarian had meant. But C. told him he couldn't possibly, that the town needed him, and he had to work on his crops. So P. volunteered to go. His brother was big enough to drive by himself now.

 

They were gone a week, and in the meantime, a rough inscription appeared on the former statue of Colonel Colophon. It read: “It was just a tree.”

 

When S. came back, his eyes were wild. He talked a lot less after that.

 

Suddenly, C.'s company was flooded with money. She hired new scientists, and began to work on a new project: permanent ink. In truth, permanent ink was probably as unreliable as invisible ink was, and it seemed to C. that something was to be done about it. This provided a new, exciting challenge for the brilliant chemist she was, and it had been too long since she had to really think hard on something. She forgot everything and got engrossed thoroughly in her research. J.'s new fertilizer was never mentioned again.

For some time, the Bellerophon brothers had been fighting. After all these years, they had grown and aged, and only one of them could drive now. It had became unclear how they should share their profits, the tips they were receiving being no longer of a literary nature. P. wanted to drive, always, for miles and miles and miles, saying that it gave him a sense of purpose. S. accused him of monopolizing the tips. P. said he couldn't care less about the money, that S. could have it all, that he only wanted to drive. In the end, the taxi remained to P., in exchange for all the money they had made together, and the drives grew very silent. With the money, S. bought Partial Food, and supplied it with imported goods. J.'s vegetables had become a luxury few could afford, and after a long workday, some of the workers craved for meat. In the countryside, an old dairy burnt, and the remaining cows were seized and sent to neighboring slaughterhouse, where they were converted into cheap steaks that converted into cheap meals for the factory workers.

 

For the first time in her life, C. hit a snag, and at first she hardly made any progress at all. One night, when J. had gone to bed, tired of waiting for her, she finally figured it out. O. was bringing her some water with concern, for she had been working for twelve hours straight, and while drinking, the slightly sulfurous taste tap water always had had in town suddenly struck her, and she knew: more sulfur had to be combined to the existent formula, in order to make it last. Sulfur was not hard to come by, for most of the weeds in the Clusterous Forest were gorged with it. C. shouted and jumped and cheered and hugged O. so tight she never really recovered.

They began to collect more weeds, weeds to dry and crush, weeds to powder and mix, weeds to melt to the ink and turn, turn, until it turned burgundy and thick. The smell made your stomach heavy with unease. But it could still be erased. Not by water, not by rubber, not by bleach, but by sand and dust. C readjusted her glasses and went back to work.

Around the same time, the librarian began to show movies. She had fixed up an old, dusty projector from the library's storehouse, hung a sheet to the wall, and used some film reels out of her personal collection, like _Battleship Potemkin_ _, North by North-West_ , and _The Abominable Snowmen_. Some of the workers met there after work, and so did P. and J. A few of the odd, mysterious buyers were seen there too, on occasions, but they never really talked to anyone, and nobody dared to say a thing. It was just movies. But slowly, as if a speck had gotten in the eye of the viewers, they began to see things differently.

Having nothing in particular to do, Zada and Zora were taking long strides around town, together or, more and more often, separately, for each of them had her favorite spots. While Zada mostly walked through town, taking an interest in the informal bands some of the employees had formed to perform in various pubs after work, Zora tended to travel further, to the Wuthering Heights Cottages or to the beach. One day, she came across Mr Mallahan, who was meandering through the weeds, looking quite lost. Though they had lived in the same town for more than forty years, they had never really talked. She told him she had always loved to be outside, even if her job was a very confined one, and she had done most of the gardening, while Zada cooked. To her, nothing was worth a blue sky and some sea landscape, but that preference had never been taken into account, most people being unable to tell her apart from her sister. Her employers had prevented almost every opportunity to go out of the mansion, in the last years. This was probably why she liked the silence of the open, where she could exist alone. This is something at which Mr Mallahan nodded. They walked together, then. They talked some more.

He told her he was a journalist without a journal, a husband without a wife, a father without a child, for his daughter was grown up now, and grown without him. She told him she was a maid without a duster, a sister without singularity, a guardian without anyone to guard, for her ward was guarding herself now, and the whole town with it. He offered to show her the flowers that bloomed on the heights, near the cottages. She sang him a song about the ocean and the color green. Eventually, it appeared that they got along.

M. was enchanted to see the changes in her father's behavior, even if it was difficult to interest him in something that wasn't seashells or winds names. After a while, he moved out with Zora in the empty Cottage, leaving M. alone in the lighthouse once and for all. She would visit them regularly of course, and he was quite sick of the constant hammering of the press. She was a grown up now, after all. She would manage.

And newcomers kept on arriving. Even if the profit from the sell to the city had been huge, most of it had been reinvested, almost without notice, in research on permanent ink. New houses had been built, but they also had to settle bigger barracks, for the workers who came on their own. Large brick blocks began to invade the landscape, smoking chimneys multiplied, and in the distance, the whole town acquired a red glow.

The old accommodations, the first ones, needed fixing for they had been constructed in a rush, inside ancient walls that dated back from Stain'd-by-the-Sea former glory. C said it couldn't be a priority, and that they would have to establish new, stricter rules on house keeping. They prohibited smoking indoors. Drinking underwent more controls. They began to prioritize married couples in the accommodation plan. When O tried to oppose, C replied that, rationally, they had a better chance at staying longer in one place, effectively creating reliable, stable homes. O dropped her gaze and said nothing.

Isolation was degrading quickly, so they issued rules on music playing, singing and late chatting, and also restricted the use of domestic chimneys (Zora observed that it couldn't be good for the air quality anyway) and coal. Some of the poorest workers began to use dried seaweeds mixed with homemade mortar to fix the failing walls and enhance isolation. In the dead of winter, they also burnt weeds inside big tanks in their yards, and gathered around to keep each other warm. C approved of it; when in need, one should always seize the opportunity to enjoy what nature had provided for.

She found out she needed more chemists, to develop her new formula; and chemists were hard to come by. There was a lot of less qualified workers, but it seemed that the distant cities had attracted all the scientists in recent years, partly because of the war that took place, partly because they were relatively few, those who were heirs to a great fortune: they tended not to be able to support themselves in the far-off lands. C decided to raise their salary. In order to do so, she discovered that she would have to cut some other expenses. There really was a lot of unqualified workers. They were crawling everywhere. It was amazing, how they all wanted to work.

 

P. came in and said he couldn't accept it. Said there would be strikes. C. answered that she honestly had no way to choose between thousands of people who wanted in, other than using such kind of selection. Those who found the salary too low could always go and seek elsewhere. Considering that they were accommodating a great number them, and sometimes feeding them, it shouldn't be so hard to spare a few pence. After all, the library provided free education for every child, and free entertainment for all. M. read to everyone, and even J. had begun to show movies and broadcast old vinyls he had discovered in the mansion's attic. Every once in awhile, they organized balls. She told him to be reasonable. P. grabbed her glass paperweight shaped as a fountain pen and smashed it to the ground. He said some unpleasant things and also:

“How can you believe she will ever have eyes for you?”

Which echoed mysteriously to C.'s ears. She wondered briefly, as she coldly asked him to leave, but promptly forgot, trying not to cut herself with the broken pieces. In a far-off corner of the office, forgotten behind her work table, O. kowtowed a little more.

 

A couple of months later, a pair of chemists bought their first secondary home on the cliffs.

 

C. had thought P. would have calmed down. It wasn't such a big deal. There had been no strikes; not that there could have been any. The lines of workers had never ceased to grow, and unemployed people had stayed around the town's borders, using leftovers from the factory to build makeshift houses. She had thought P. would understand. They were friends, after all. They had done all this together.

But P. didn't calm down. He took longer and longer rides out of town, and the taxi could be missing for weeks in a row. M. got used to looking for the familiar tubular lights at night, from her chamber's window. Rumors spread, stating he was meeting up with some of the old ink buyers, the mysterious ones. Every time, she would ask “Yes, but which mysterious ones?”. People just shrugged and walked away. So, because fair seemed fair to her, because she had always asked all sorts of questions, Young Cap Boy became involved in mysterious taxi errands.

She had always managed. Since the beginning, she had been the one who had managed the best, though she was mostly left alone. Sort of. For a long time, since her mother's departure. It is a pity she never quite realized how well she was doing. From a certain perspective, things were always quite simple on her behalf, questions and answers. She was not simple, so she knew that sometimes, answers are hard to get, because people never give them easily when they are asked something for real. She knew everything was complicated. But it didn't have to mean everything was off the record. Like a puzzle spread on the sealess horizon, complexity was for everyone to see. So there was no secret after all. There were only scared, slippery people. She had never been a slippery one. Moxie Mallahan was a name you could trust. But then again, anyone hardly made it to the lighthouse.

From time to time, she went and visit Zora and her father in the cottage. They seemed happy enough. The equipment was dilapidated, but Zora found pleasure in fetching water from the well, and Mr Mallahan lighted candles in empty jam jars. They kept a garden, but refused to use J.'s fertilizer, deeming it cruel on the octopuses. Dried leaves were hanging all over the beams, leaves of all kind: mint, bay, vervain, lemongrass, thyme. When the days grew hotter, the whole place smelt of old medicine. She could have easily liked it there, but something was amiss. She didn't notice it at first, mainly through force of habit. She was used to missing things. Her father told her one day that she really should stop all that printing nonsense. No one should cut any tree, especially not for baking them to gray glue and press them until they almost disappear. And the ink was just a mix of unidentified chemicals put together at random or worse, harvested from the remaining octopuses. M. said it was sustainable, and that C. could account for the composition of the common ink she was selling. Her father shrugged and said that, for a journalist, she certainly was ready to believe any well-polished speech.

After conversations like this, M. usually went to the Black Cat Coffee, and listened to the machinery humming. Oddly enough, it had remained more or less empty, as if workers were avoiding the place on purpose. M. had heard from J. that the piano was frightening people away, but she had her own idea. The atmosphere in there, though eerily cozy, verged on the unbearable if you stayed for more than an hour or so. Like having your throat slowly, slowly pressed. The bread and coffee remained, and if she wondered, she never investigated. Some questions were best left unanswered. Sometimes, P. seated at the counter, but it was happening less and less. Sometimes, O. was in there too. She had always liked talking to O., though she never found the distraction everyone seemed to experience around her. O., in M.'s opinion, was not distracting, but interesting. Her research on the sea was quite fascinating, and she also had precious hindsight on the Factory's business, although a rather focused one. Most times, they would drink coffee and talk about missing things, things that one misses, and on being missed by a miss or missus in the mist of it all. Every time M. pointed out that it was quite a list that they missed or messed, O. would say that one day, she would bring back the sea.

Other times, M. would find the librarian eating a piece of hot bread. She was strange, but quiet, and that was all M. was asking for these days. Once, maybe on the day her father made that comment on paper being unnatural, pronouncing the word as if it was something very natural indeed and so common he could not bear it anymore, she turned to the librarian and said:

“Do you happen to know other people in your branch of activity?”

The librarian simply smiled, and nodded.

 

More orders came from the cities. Some of them were so distant they probably qualified as foreign, but C. did not dwell too much on that thought. If anyone had asked, she would have explained that, to her, the town had always been on its own, isolated from the rest of the world, an island of sorts, with no sea. Oh, the trains were running at a hellish pace now. But they always went one way. Somehow, the Stain'd never belonged to any wider entity than the town itself. They only belonged here, and nowhere else. They only belonged to the factory. The benefits were important, but she had to adapt to every need, and the research department was busier than ever. O.'s team was reduced to the minimum. C. and J. fought over this: he said she could not get so engrossed in her business without taking into account the consequences, that they had plans about the sea when it all started. She said it was important to her too, but she had to be realistic and admit that, for the time being, it could not be a priority. He said she'd do bloody well to double check on her list of priorities, for he was not sure to be on it anymore.

C. worked harder than ever. She hired more and more scientists. New demands had arrived, inquiries about permanent ink. They were numerous, those who wanted something written, and wanted it to be permanent. There is a certain kind of people, certain kind of structure, that does not like a fading truth. So here is how it all happened, and there is no other way around it, because facts are the only thing that matters in the end. In the end.

Fact is, such an intense activity was bound to attract attention. Attention led to curiosity, curiosity to wonder, wonder to desire, desire to avidity, and avidity to malevolence, as it often does. The formula for permanent ink was not completed yet, and the progresses had slowed down. C. deemed it strange, but ultimately it was O. who found out why. One night, she spotted one of the chemists messing up the on-going experiments by altering the level of carbonate and copper. He hadn't noticed her and, when discovered, reacted as every trapped man does: with instinctive violence. O.'s cheek was cut with a broken Erlenmeyer, but they managed to catch the spy. The lab where the scene took place was ruined, but C. hardly noticed: when she saw O.'s face covered in blood, she gained immediate focus. O.'s hair was in the way to the cut, so she brushed it away. Pieces of glass were still stuck inside, so she picked them up softly. Blood was pouring, so she kept it at bay. She said she would take care of her and heal her, that she needn't worrying at all. She was going to take care of everything, she knew how to, and she was used to being in charge. She said that she could soothe the injury and erase the pain, that it would only take a little time, but all O. had to do was listening to her. She told her to focus on her voice. She said she could reverse everything, that there would be no trace, that her face would be exactly as it once was, in its former glory. O. actually smiled at that, which caused another wave of blood and pain. C. washed it away, told her that everything was going to be okay. Eventually, the only thing that remained in her way was O. herself, so she took measures and got someone to fetch her chloroform in the storehouse. She never understood why O. began crying as she fell asleep in her arms, long before she even began sewing.

It turned out the aggressor had been payed by a big chemical center, in one of the distant cities, to steal C.'s results and falsify everything he could. When C.'s heard about it, she had to be stopped, for she still held O.'s needle. The problem was that no one had any idea of what to do with the man. There were no police officers in town, hadn't been for a long time, since the last departures. No one spoke of sending him on a train to be judged in the city. Not once. In the end, they locked him up inside the old police station, and wondered how you were to dispense justice in a place that had been lawless for such a long time. To everyone's surprise, C. told the crowd that had come to inquire that she felt she was not to be trusted on that issue, and that she thought the town should decide for itself. Instead, she focused on healing O.'s wounds. She kept staring at the scar on her cheek, saying that it was going to fade, that she would make it disappear. Somehow, she would see to that there would be no trace of it. O. simply smiled, and was quickly reminded that she shouldn't do so. She utterly stopped as C. traced the wound with her finger, first applying balm, then out of sheer distraction, as if to erase it herself. O. looked at her and told her that maybe, this trace was to stay. Told her she could not fix everything, and that the past couldn't be erased just like that. Scars told stories, because sometimes stories just had to be told and linger, for the better. C. grew very silent, and turned her face away, because she never wanted anyone to see her cry.

 

No one knew how it happened, but around that time, M. began to entertain her readership with the secret and ignored passion of the Paperknight for the Queen in the Red Tower.

 

In the weeks that followed, O. worked with a new ardor. Through all those years, her team had progressed slowly toward an achievement in which no one seemed to believe anymore. They were chasing an old dream, those forgotten few, and with the smell of salt it carried hope of something different. Of course, all their efforts wouldn't have been if not for the Factory, if not for the money war had had sailing over dry land, if not for the ink that was not to meet the eyes, or perhaps if not for a girl with white blond hair and a pinstriped dress, a long time ago. O. was the one on which time never passed. This is probably why she never saw how everyone had grown up.

One night, someone broke in the Invisible Aquarium. Not a piece of the expensive equipment was touched. They took nothing, apart from the obvious. All the octopuses were gone. The culprits were never found. But in the height cottage, the scent of medicine grew stronger.

 

Maybe she was reading them after all. Or maybe J. was. It possibly had nothing to do with it, but M. always wondered afterward. She may have feared that old saying, by that Irish writer, about life and imitation. She may never had considered it at all, as everything else. One day, on the press forms list, came one new rule: reading newspapers was now forbidden in every workshop, barrack, warehouse or laboratory, and around the Factory in general. M. hiccuped. She stared at the burgundy ink for a long moment, daring it to fade. Then, war weary, she decided it was time to step out of the lighthouse.

C. had never seen M. so furious. Furious was not a state one easily associated with her. But there she was, pointing, her bowler somersaulting, red as a dried weed and screaming at the top of her lungs. It was beyond her why she would throw such a fit, when she wasn't banning her newspapers at all. People were free to read whatever they wanted at home or in the library. But inside the Factory, this was causing many inconveniences: people went unfocused and undisciplined, and furthermore, old copies were abandoned all over the place, on the floor and near the machines. One Most Mysterious Murder print had even ruined an experiment in Lab. 4, because one chemist just had to know if the gardener had done it. It was only natural to take measures. It was her factory, after all.

This had M. pause and look at her as if she was seeing her for the first time. She said she had been away for too long. She feared they had slipped, somehow they had slipped. She told C. she doubted her employees would read anything at home, considering how all they seemed to do these days was work. The business hours had been extended once more, and the orders were always urgent. She looked at her again, and said she was sorry. She had let herself got locked away. But no more.

So she went to the workshops, grabbed a stool, and stood up above the crowd of workers she was no longer allowed to entertain. She cried again, for everyone to hear. Said that their future was writing itself without them. Said the town was still lawless after all this time, if the law was not established among the people. Said that the power they were giving the Factory only came from their own labor, and that they could reclaim it. They could rise. If they but wanted it, they could rise. And while she spoke, nothing could be heard.

And this was pretty much it. Maybe it was too little, too late. Maybe she wasn't the right leader, but only managing. Maybe she was thinking of someone else too hard while speaking. Anyway, they all smiled an awkward smile, and clapped a bit, not to embarrass her, but in the end, they all told her, in their own words, that reading was important but that working was vital, and that earning a living wasn't just a phrase. There could be no strikes, for they were too numerous. M. felt like burning something at that. But she knew that was a slippery slope, so she just went back to the lighthouse, to the lighthouse. Once again, she locked the door.

 

That night, while staring at the ceiling, M. realized none of them had had children.

 

That year, the dog days came back in early, and they hovered above the town, threatening to crush it for a long time. It was only the beginning of summer, but already the air was more sulfurous than salty, making your skin tingle and your eyes burn a little. It was as if the sun was setting ablaze the numerous chimneys of the Factory, that stood redder than ever on the horizon. For a few months now, the fumes had been thicker; the new formula was coming to completion, and they kept adding more weeds to it. The air bore a sense of anticipation. This was their definitive summer, and somehow, the whole town knew it. (This was the summer of many a return).

And as the asphalt slowly melt like a fresh vinyl being pressed, a familiar tune was heard once more. It was homy and eery, melancholy and warm. It was forever untitled, and made you miss everything you never really knew. A new silence spread through the streets. The wind fleetingly carried a different, acrid scent. Trapdoors were opened, that hadn't been for a long time. Dust was moved. Whispers rose, tentatively at first, then they grew, and grew, until the town furiously buzzed with voices murmuring that some nights, up on the cliffs, you could see the silhouette of a ghost. It was said that no one really saw her, that there was no way to be sure. That wasn't true, of course. It is most surprising, how terror can pour over a place just right through five little notes on a mechanical piano. It was said that trouble was back in town, and she was there to stay.

 

Truth (if such a thing is to be believed in), truth was trouble already had roots of its own, but after that none of the founding members could look at each other in the eyes.

There are, in fact, numerous theories regarding original violence in Western culture. One of them includes an alliance made in blood, among young wolfs, to murder the eldest, tyrannical leader of the herd. Another one basically consists in a community harassing a proverbial animal with its own crimes, before butchering it to achieve purification. A more primitive one lays on the spilling of blood for the sun to rise again. They were to be saviors from the beginning, but. They had almost forgotten. Originally, there was a reason why this dawn was different from all other dawns. So they knew, they knew what cries people said you could hear every night in the heights. And so it happened that they began to look on themselves with the eyes of the enemy.

 

You tend to adopt an unkind perspective, from a tomb.

 

And then, it seemed that the eyes of the enemy came back to stare at them.

He came on a day when the sun was roaring. All shadows had left town, chased away by the unhealthy waves that undulated in the thick atmosphere. This was a weather that said: there is no place else you could go. Their designs, their hopes, their intuitions were all slashed across town, in plain sight. They had never felt more obvious. An overused saying is that the observer modifies the observed. There is such a thing as a merciless observer. So, as he walked through the streets, he didn't stop and pause in front of S.'s Partial Food, nor in front of the many workshops, nor even in front of the library. It would have been too easy. No, he walked past the shops and the warehouses and by the lighthouse, and gazed at the endless beach.

 

If C. had collaborated more closely with any of her former associates, maybe it wouldn't have happened. If O. had been working in her office, instead of her underground lab that day, she may have prevented it. But C. had insisted she should have her own working space. And she had traced the scar on her cheek, so O. hadn't objected. As a consequence (but who's to say?), after a row of offices and secretaries and antechambers and plush seats and flickering light bulbs, C. raised her eyes from that month's ink production data one morning, only to find herself staring into the eyes of Stew Mitchum.

She knew him at once. He had broadened, heightened and toughened through the years, but she was a chemist used to molecular chains, and there was no other place in the world where a head chained with a trunk in that peculiar way, and no other eyes where attention slung from shiny things in her room to books to private papers in such a zealous way.

Before she could yell and have him thrown out and banned, he raised a hand. The hand was empty and bare, and he said he had come in peace. So much time had passed since the days when they were enemies, and what truth could there really be in enmities forged by thirteen years old? By then, C. was so flabbergasted she had no time to react. He was telling her he had changed. That should not be a subject of awe, given how young he was when all these terrible, terrible things happened. He was not denying he took part, no, for back then he was subjected to highly destructive influences. Life was nothing to be proud of, stranded in a decaying town with no particular talents, nothing to stand out, really (and there she thought she heard something in the lilt of his voice, “unlike you all”), parents that knew nothing in between unreasonable bickering and unreasonable praise, and above all, no justice ever dispensed. The others had come and provided a sense of purpose and adventure, along with beautiful sparkles to look at. There was a job to be done, and you were already red-handed and standing in the middle of shattered glass and fumes long before you realized they only needed someone small and flexible enough to use the window. From then on, he had only developed the few natural abilities he had. Soon, he learned that he would have to make do. He also learned that, when you had tripped once, you were lost forever. They had him. They had everything. Not that he cared so much for their cause anyway. He had thought himself free when it all seemingly came to a dreadful end. But they always were more numerous. They had changed alright, and he still didn't care. Their motives had become less and less clear to him, and then transparent. He had never really known how to read, he told her as much. They (he meant “her kind”) always were the learned ones, those who knew how things were, where people stood and why. Weren't they. So it took him long enough to want to be more than a simple tool. But he never could. People like him were just good enough for the red-handed business. The others had a pretty glorious image of themselves, underneath it all. You couldn't have a destiny, when you were unable to see through code. While they were telling their own little private story, he started second-guessing them. It was painfully obvious how they would never achieve anything in the world, despite all their words and secret hatred. They lacked definiteness, neatness, they were so untidy. A chaotic force that would only add to the general confusion and oppositions. He came to realize he didn't like a two-sided war. He liked a one-sided one. Eventually, he came up with his own plan, and it went all wrong. He lost, a lot, everything maybe, and through it all, he couldn't shake off the feeling that _she_ was watching. It was almost impossible to get on his nerves. But he thought someone, when he was turning over in his bed at night, someone was making the sound of a train. 

We were children, he said. We were only children. He was rudder than that about it. He then told her that, in retrospect, it is rare that the adult we become can be proud of the thirteen years old we used to be, and C. looked away. Though he probably didn't mean it that way, he was always good with a slingshot, Stew Mi t chum, and he always hit it right. He didn't even seem to notice, but from then on, he held her in his gaze. He wasn't made for complication, was what he had been told back in the days. He still believed it now, even after discovering that sense of horror they were casting on everything they touched. He only wanted order. And he had heard she had been doing an interesting job of reshaping the town. If he had learned one thing, it was that you always paid back for what you had done, if you had done anything at all. He knew he had to repay them, for the sake of the town, he had to. There was no way around it. He was only one more ignorant in the world, but he was coming bare-handed, and that was something, wasn't it? If you looked at it closely, it was about as good as it gets. As good as it gets. 

He had heard of their troubles with the spy, and told her she couldn't ignore the mess partisan people would inevitably make of her hard work. They always would be messed-up, and she needed someone. She needed to be sure. She needed order. The rest was only politics, and politicians didn't know the first thing about chemistry. With such growing numbers, the situation would soon become unmanageable, and she needed to protect her formula. He would repay them for their loss. He only wanted to work.

C. raised her hand. Stew was dismissed, but not before asking her to think about it. The offer stood. And C., once left alone, sat at her desk for some time, and waited.

 

Around that time, the first children began to cough.

 

A terrible scene  took place between C. and J. He couldn't believe she had seen Stew and let him go as a free man. Had she forgotten that much? She told him Stew's story, but J. didn't give a damn about the poor man's pains. There was no reason to forgive. This was the boy who had killed, with his own hands, killed a librarian when he was just thirteen. He was, in the precisest sense of the word, a murderer on the run. Surely that should mean something to her. C. looked at him and said:

“Aren't we all?”

 

And what had she become? She used to be a brilliant young chemist. It was different, different for them. They had never meant, and their hands had nothing to do with it. It had been years since she had done a single good thing for the town. Hadn't she noticed the look in people's eyes? Hadn't she noticed his own eyes? If she agreed to this deal, that would be the end of it, he said. He too, would stop trying.

That night, O. had to forcefully walk C. from her office to her bed, and convince her to rest. Before falling asleep, C. said she shouldn't stop working, really, for it was dangerous for her, being distracted

A strange illness began to strike among the workers, especially those who gathered materials at the beach. Doctors were few in town, as they were of little use to the Factory. When some got missing, anyone hardly noticed. There were so many of them. Another hand added a dried, red weed to the burning fire.

 

These past few days, O. had felt strangely focused. The hot dryness felt like scratching on her skin, on her nerves. It was almost there. She was certain that, if her thoughts weighted on it even with the lightest touch, it would break like paper stretched over a broken window. C.'s state was bothering her to the point of anxiety. M. hadn't been to Black Cat Coffee for weeks; P. was out of town, and S. had more or less cut ties with them all. J. … she always knew she should think more about J., but couldn't. Should think more of him. But couldn't. Of course, it had nothing to do with him. It turned out, if you looked closely enough, that few things had anything to do with J. He cooked, he did his garden, he broadcast his records. He had been cut for a peaceful life, probably more than any of them. Well. Apart from her. She should know better than disregarding the unremarkable one with an honest face. That was probably why she had trouble looking at herself in the mirror. So O. spoke to no one, and drew the final pipes of her ground-breaking irrigation net, wondering why she seemed to be the only one who ever cried.

It had been years since C. had idly walked the streets of her town. She was too public a figure, and even if few workers actually met her, history had proved you couldn't very well hide white blond hair and pinstripes. People were consequently  going to some trouble to stay out of her way. It was en eerie sight, she supposed, those line splitting in front of a frail girl, woman, with glasses – as if she was some acute knife. C. wasn't looking at the people, though. She wasn't looking at the shops, the pubs, or the reddish, weed-covered houses. She wasn't looking at the heights not at the old Academy in the distance, she wasn't looking at the beach, and she was trying rather hard not to look at the lighthouse. When she reached the library door, she finally lifted her gaze and saw. 

She had never been there, not once. She had told herself she was too busy, always. When she stepped in, the bell rang, and quietness ensued. Suddenly, she was facing the librarian. She realized then she never had a good look at her either. And oh, how was she trouble.

She asked her if she was looking for a book in particular. Of course, C. had no idea how to answer, since she still doubted her reason to be there in the first place. It had been such a long time since she was last confronted with someone who didn't lower his head and nod at at her every demand that she didn't remember how to behave. At her awkwardly shrugging one shoulder like a bored teenager, the librarian adjusted her glasses and suggested she took her time to discover the place. She knew. Of course she knew, hadn't she just verified herself that she was quite remarkable? Still, she resented her for knowing.

As she toured the library, she saw it all. The white sheet and the projector. The old reels. Books about ashes and fish eggs. Studies on Black, Brown and Beige. Dahl. Snyder. Lowry. She neared the chemistry section with a sort of derisive awe. Of course, she had read chemistry books. Her room, back in the mansion, had been filled with them, diligent purchases of too proud parents. But even back then, she had always been one for experiment, and theory had the bittersweet taste of elegant cowardice. The art of never taking a single risk. A formula could be written on page in permanent ink, in the end it was all it was, if not put to the test.  She left the science section without regret. In truth, her real temptation never lied there. But it  w as this whole place… The air. The silence. She  skimmed past them all, books on theater and sea monsters, books on fire and books on love, books on trusted friends and ferocious enemies, books on codes and tattoos, on snakes and smoke and old green elderwood and its uses in architecture. With the tip of her finger, she caressed the irregular edges, lightly tapping in the voids where the borrowed ones should have been. She could feel, but no exactly tell, that a meaning was taking shape silently in the blank spaces. She examined the fire alarm system, wondered at water drowning the books, looked at an old poster of The Abominable Snowmen with morbid curiosity. She checked the request list and noted that one P. Lease seemed to be popular theses days in the city. She tried to imagine what kind of book  _Hide and Seek: A Safe Place in the Mountains,_ requested by a J.A., could be.  She didn't dwell too long on  _I don't regret what happened last night_ , requested by J. X., for it sounded a bit racy.  She tried to make sense of a triple request by C.O., consisting in  _For This You'll Face Violent and Fastidious Death_ , a book by an old French author called  _The Tragics_ , and a collection of poems by Robert Browning. Well, she supposed one could liked both noir novels and romantic sonnets. She had herself always shown remarkable consistency, but she was beginning to feel it was more of a flaw than she had first believed. Maybe that was why she had come. To understand why those who came here had returned inflated with mystery and meaning, how they had gorged themselves with quotations and messages, and bathed in complexity. Of course she remembered: the library had been the setting of a special power, back in the days. But wasn't it all politics from the beginning? She thought the words “the end” had been pronounced such a long time ago their echo was quite lost on those who weren't there at the time. Though some nights, she felt like nothing had ever been told to her. For years she had danced to a tune she couldn't quite hear. So she traces lines through the dust, and  brushed past each row with a sense of anticipation. She took her chance and opened old books whose covers displayed certain letters, sniffed at the cases for any trace of coffee. She waited. She went to page 32 and to page 605 in many a volume, leafed through ophthalmology treaties, through what  _looked_ right, although she felt like one reading an instruction book in a foreign language. 

B ut there were no paper conveniently stuck inside a volume, no old bookmark, no suspicious annotations in the margins, no meaningfully misplaced book on the shelves, no key to the back locale, no wrongly addressed postcards, no well-hidden package, no tags made in  A ncient  Gr eek, no charades, no wooden borrowing token, no buried treasure, no statue, no sense at all. 

All that there was, was silence in the library.

She threw her last book across the table. This whole place was closing on her like a clam, and crushing her flat, entirely flat. Even the neon lights seemed to be chanting, in their disapproving humming, that this was not where she should be. She was lost in a forest of signs, and she couldn't read.

 

There is a thing about secrets: you don't know a thing about them.

 

The librarian found her  sat at a table covered in random books that seemed ostentatiously mysterious, head in her hands. When she  caught sight of her face, she finally told her:

“I didn't realize this was a sad occasion.”

This is the last time someone saw C. cry.

 

And the bell rang, and it was C. possibly leaving forever the quietness of the world behind, that vast, stretching land of possibilities that had once been hers. Or at least she had thought it to be. The librarian watched her go. This was to be expected. After all, she was quite remarkable. That night, she ascended the stairs of her tower, and let the sands of the concrete, the untidy and rude song of reality, engulf her completely.

 

The days kept on burning. The town was buzzing with activity. The date of the launching of the formula approached, and the sky held its breath, giving the air a blank and deafening quality that is commonly found in the best international flights. Everyone was working at the top of her capacity, each in his place, each under the red light that glowed at night around the Factory. Journalists came from the city, a whole party of pinstriped pants and remarkable hats. And cameras. Many cameras. M. had approached them with curiosity, even a kind of silly hope, and backed off with surprise. She learned quickly that there was a new way of asking the wrong questions. It created two truths at least, each neatly parallel in a way that was pleasing to the mind. They took so many pictures the town kept lingering shards of flashes on the edges.

It had been decided that, for the sake of the ceremony, the remains of the old bust that stood in front of the city hall would be replaced by O.'s creation. She had proceeded with slow care, convinced for years the statue would be seen by no other eyes. She had only mentioned it casually to C., for she felt she should, or it would have been like stealing something. Word had mysteriously spread through the various offices, and at some point it had become apparent that everyone assumed the designed purpose of the sculpture was to be used in the launching. O. had always been reluctant to make a fuss of anything. She agreed, that is, she didn't say a thing. A few days to the set date, a sheet-covered form appeared on the main square. Few people dared approaching it, for it was not to be seen before the big day. Nevertheless, some tried. A slim figure, followed by the muffled sound of typewriter keys; a sturdy man with an honest face that looked, however, rather forlorn; two silhouettes, similar in their attitude but so very dissimilar in their way of thinking; a woman and a man, both melancholic and carrying the smell of dried leaves; a broad man with a look like a slingshot; a remarkable woman with long white blond hair and glasses; and something of a ghost.

They all lifted the sheet for the briefest moment, glimpsed at whatever laid underneath, and walked away, somewhat enlightened, or obscured.

They all had something to say, but none actually said it. Of all the silhouettes and faces, against all hope, it was finally J.'s turn to stand. To no one in particular, to a circle of bystanders, he declared blankly that they had replaced with a new face the old face of the town, the one that used to be everywhere, once before, and was never again mentioned. And the few who remembered closed their eyes, and feared.

There was one face, though, one figure who hadn't tried to look in the statue's eyes as if it held some kind of mystical and terrifying truth. O. had been working. So seriously in fact, that she was vaguely wondering why she seemed to be the only one to focus when everybody else gradually stopped doing so. The labs were deserted. Even C. left her office on occasions, lately. The corridors were eerily peaceful. The completion of a life-long project came in great silence. O. was feeling foolish enough to be grateful for it. In the course of all those years, and even when the idea first came to her – she was still so young – it had never occurred to her that she could be a biologist or even an engineer. As far as anybody was concerned, she was only folding paper into neat little things that remained in your hand like a simplified version of life. She did not expect to be the one who would create any kind of complication, the one who would design something more real than the world as it presently was. It weighted on her like a stone.

One unremarkable night, she came to find C. alone in her office. She was no so busy since the completion of the new ink, and all the celebrations seemed to be gathering around her without touching her. She had no new project, and it showed. For the first time in her life, C. had nothing to work on.

So of course it seemed like such good timing. O. stepped in, and told her everything. She told her she could bring back the sea, knew how to. It would be long and complicated, it would cost money, it would require every worker they could find, but they would, could do it. She had drawn graphs, produced charts and calculated angles, and there was no way around it. She had been so focused. The pipes would be huge, but they could use the earth boats to move the tools around. At some point, they would also need actual boats, but it was probably possible to revert the old ones back to their former glory. The wind would change. There wouldn't be so many weeds, for the salty water would keep their growing pace normal. It would take some effort, but once they would have the infrastructures, there could be a harbor again. It had been so long, and none of them had known the sea, it was but a distant memory. The lighthouse, they could relight the lighthouse, M. would be so pleased to dust off the giant bulb. J. could cook seashells, or maybe weeds, for the flora would diversify, and then it wouldn't do to eat animals, wouldn't it. Summers would become bearable. It was such a long summer. They could reintroduce the octopuses, and the island would go back to being a real island. They could work together again, like before, and she knew it would be grand. She could already feel the possibility, floating in the air like a stinging scent.

 

This is so terribly impressive O. I can only imagine how much thought and hard work you put into this I know only you could understand what it is to chase the old ghost of this town I feel so lonely sometimes don't you see the lineaments of the dunes across that empty spot it just sucks you out doesn't it and I know and I want to do this more than I can possibly say I still can't believe you managed see how it could be I have that picture it's faded you know but only you only you the town it would be so and we could fix all the maybe everyone would come back who are we to say I miss you quiet folding noises the office feels so empty and now the sounds of waves each different from the next oh my and it would be on again and forth and enduring sailors yes and possibly ship builders so we would need some wood and the imports well that could be taken care of given that a harbor O. a harbor it is a word that had lost its yes it would refresh that sort of things and so much more anew and almost untouched no that's not what I meant don't but what did you say hypothetically that is what I thought and yes I want to do it I want to do it and of course it would be grand and it will someday eventually but not now now is not a time for dream projects and ground-breaking transformations now is not a time for ideal now it's just orders and orders coming in line yes but we do need the money and what about the new houses I don't think we really need any more complication just right now have you seen have you seen or I don't know heard I don't it's slowly eating me up I can't I can't he came and then there was nothing I could no no don't be like all the others I thought you you you the one to I'll do it someday I swear I am working towards it no it just isn't fair in the end it is always far easier to conceive than to achieve look you couldn't possibly expect that we would tackle this as soon as you were finished the unemployed yes but by now I really don't think they are numerous enough I know you are realistic always have been maybe too much I saw you after you stopped that awful no let me look at it again it makes me quite I I I O. do you know J. oh no it's unnecessary I want to I'd like to I don't know it feels how sometimes and you please tell me but to be the one who found out my how you must feel something positive it hadn't been seen since when but at that time I don't really remember where oh in the train too yes that awful night it sticks on me it have you seen have you seen her everybody did and no one then I don't know what to believe anymore but it feels like I can talk to you now can't I let me see trust me after all it is of my doing yes I care if it does fade though well maybe I will I don't see why you must look so oh but don't please don't I am so sorry so very sorry I don't think anyone can see how sorry I am but it is late everyone and we need the weeds you must have known it the ink it still is the crucial part I know of course but it is only for now and then it works quite well doesn't it we manage at least that is what I as soon as we are stable enough to enlist the right amount of people and then the engineering is not what scares me the most – I promise but no really you must alright please don't I so rarely talk but if you must know for now I can't say anything but no no no sorry the answer is.

 

(There are a couple more myths about water pouring from the sky, so that in the end, it fills up the sea. But it doesn't work here.)

 

When O. left C.'s office, her eyes were dry.

 

The day of the ceremony was a furnace. Crowds had spread through the streets like clouds of flies, and enthusiasm culminated into a feverish numbness. Paper garlands trembled restlessly in the descending air. The few journalists managed to produce so many flashes it looked like the atmosphere would catch fire. C. was standing in her pinstriped glory, on a tribune and next to J., far from J. Along them stood S., in his quality of town entrepreneur, as well as the chemist delegate, some officials, and, at an extremity so extreme it seemed she was in constant danger of falling off, was O., in a navy blue dress and looking forlorn. In the first row, you could hear the clattering of a typewriter, for objectivity of the press should be maintained even at the cost of your breaking heart, for you had to manage. P. was at M.'s side, looking at his brother as if he wanted to blur his face. Not three seats away, a face that rang a bell. The librarian appeared significantly more focused than usual, if not more joyful. Despite it all, her eyes were on J. At the complete opposite sat a big, broad man at the center of an empty circle of chairs. News like Stew Mitchum traveled fast, even if most people hadn't known him from his days in Stain'd-by-the-Sea. Stew wasn't even looking at the tribune, but at the crowd, as if to dare anyone to try and do anything, anything at all. He knew what it cost, in fact he would set prices. At the back, along with the most disinterested workers, you could catch glimpses of a black dress and white apron, because old habits die hard, and some faded, homemade flowery dress, because they do. M.'s father didn't really get why they had to extract themselves from their cottage to witness such a thing, but even he felt Zora needed a sense of closure. If only those clatters weren't so loud. And then, there were all the others. Hundreds of faces that didn't know, or knew but had forgotten, half-forgotten, and perhaps not at all, but oh, didn't it all came back and forth, back and forth?

C. was about to make a speech. It would be a good speech, she was pretty sure of it; it would leave a definite mark, sign up her positive action, and then the story would just write itself. The cloth would be lifted, and it would be the beginning. Yes. Yes. It is to be believed that she almost made it that day. That is, she almost made it _her_ day. It sometimes happens that a desire is so powerful reality curves around it. Of course, what you get then is often a limping state of things.

C. stepped in and didn't trip, she grasped the microphone, adjusted her glasses, tried to smile to the unknown faces. She breathed in.

Of course, what you get then is often

It began like a whisper. On this still day, in the boiling air, came something like a breeze. It brushed the back rows first, but the back rows were so distant, so far off, and the crowd so large you couldn't even see a clear frontier between the people and the uncertain waves coming up from the sweating asphalt. But then it spread. Like a white bomb, like a gush of wind, it bent all the heads in a growing circle like ears of wheat. The noise grew louder. It jumped from one person to the next, the starting point forever unknown, the spark. It cracked and clicked. Everywhere in the crowd, circles closed. Every passerby took a step backwards. Every person hiccuped in surprise. As if they all had been struck by a silver lightning, people stopped moving. But the noise grew louder. It wasn't in the words exactly. It is not even sure that anyone said anything that day, but suddenly they just knew. Most of them hadn't even heard about him. Something in the structure of the town changed, though, one of her foundation slid, and everyone felt the ground submitting itself to secret subterranean rearrangements. C. saw the moment when the silent wave closed upon them, and they were the last, they were the eye of the hurricane, the center of something so vast they had become a margin. The buzzing became unbearable. A violent gust of air swept across the tribune, tearing the garlands apart, knocking M.'s bowler off, stretching C.'s impeccable hair in every directions like living snakes, ripping the sheet off a statue no one was looking at anymore. And then they understood. L. was said to be dead.

 

There is a lot to be said about rumors; but to repeat it here would be missing the point.

 

From the heights of the town, a cry pierced the silence. After all these years, no one can say for sure if it was out of triumph or agony. Nevertheless, there is no reason to think it couldn't have been both.

 

At this moment, everything changed. To consider it a turning point would be looking upon the matter with too positive an eye, and this sort of things never do. What came upon them, more accurately, was the crushing revelation that everything was different, had been, for a long time, different. Something broke that day, and they were terrified to find out what it was they had lost out of sheer distraction. Were have we been, they asked. What have we done. Maybe it wasn't the eye of the enemy after all, maybe it was just time, and melancholy. They realized it may not be what they had had in mind all along. It was never their town. And so it happened that they looked upon themselves, and this time they lingered.

M. eyed her typewriter, wondering why she always was so eager to write, and so afraid to talk. She considered each and every of them, with care, with love, with eyes that were too kind and too battered. Those faces she had known most of her life, were they the masks of something entirely frightful, that she had failed to see? Vertigo was so sharp it made her feel sea-sick. When had it turned so wrong? They were good people, weren't they? Maybe they shouldn't have educated themselves. Maybe they should have gone wild, and free. For now that they were grown-ups, she felt like life had merely stretched them. They were taller, yes, and less of themselves. They had strove to print on the world, and they had lost substance. Aging had dried them to the bone. On looking back, their past seemed too simplistic and brightly colored, like those cheap books none of them liked, filled with gangs of well-bread children and a dog. It didn't sound real at all, the bright young chemist and her dashing sweetheart; the intrepid journalist with a hundred questions and a bowler; the jolly brothers in their yellow cab… The mysterious detective and his bloody cap. It was him. It was him all along. There he came, running after something, running from something, and with all his hurryuping, he had led them in his track, attracted them, and they had gravitated around him, around the empty space he left, like lost satellites. They were doomed from the start. He had lost them that night and then, how could they keep going? They had lost track, and they had lost interest. The sin, the capital sin from that particular night, was that there was no eye anymore. No one was looking at them. And, to be sure, no one was looking after them. They had been such old kids. Now they were mere buds of adults.

Her gaze met C.'s. The remarkable chemist was paler and stiller than her own statue. Behind the glass that covered her eyes, she blinked enough times for M. to gather something uncertain, something like:

“Where is your mother, M.?”

So she raised an eyebrow that was meant to say:

“Where is yours?”

And the few who had been there glimpsed at Stew and then mouthed at each other something like:

“Were they not three?”

P. looked at S. and S., strangely, looked at M.'s father. O. looked at the statue and Stew looked at the other statue, the old one that had been so damaged it wasn't recognizable anymore.

 

There was a time, when they could have been considered a group, a gang, a secret team or even fragments of a plot. But now they were such an odd sum. For one of them, and only one, saw herself as a savior. And though she knew she had no destiny, she had wanted to believe. One of them saw himself as a stranger now. He had tried and tried and found out after all that compromises could be compromising indeed. One of them just wanted to escape his difficult childhood, and cloud himself from the world. One was convinced there was a just cause to be fought for, somewhere, that truth was on a side and that they should go and get it, for the weak, for the poor, because once they'd see, they would rise together. One wanted to believe this, but couldn't, and instead she only just managed. One of them wanted to tidy up the world into neat little piles, and maybe, only when he couldn't resist it, crush one away. One of them was tired of ringing alarms in the desert.

But only one of them was wishing they could have had 23 children, to be named after every moon sea, and hers would have been Edge, Fertility, and maybe even Tempest. Only one of them was thinking of the town as a part of an archipelago, instead of a lonely and stranded pile of earth. One that was inwardly swaying, fresh and salty, back and forth, back and. Forth. One was embracing and endless, and so plundered you would shed tears over her, if you could at all.

 

And then, there was one more. Whether she wanted it or not, she would always be part of them, hating it, hating everything, and wanting out, but sometimes you have no choice but to say: this is my town.

 

This was not their town. Or rather: this was never the town they wanted. Was it, however, the town they deserved? That may very well be the wrong question.

 

They looked upon themselves, and saw there was no looking back. They had cut ties. And now they were alone, each and every one of them, under the eye of the others, and alone. They were not who they used to be.

 

There was a town. And then it went all wrong.

 

 

And then it went on.

 

 

On the following day, Stew came back to C.'s office, and signed up for his new job.

On the following week, J. stood there too, and told her he was leaving her. He could not stand this anymore. She was so changed. And there probably was something he could do, somewhere else.

The office went very quiet for a few months.

One day, P. packed up his meager possessions, locked his car truck and took off. He didn't say goodbye to his brother. He told M. he was going to pay up for his mistakes, their mistakes, that he would fight to erase everything they did. There was this thing he had learned in the war, that their ink burnt quite well. M. watched the yellow light disappeared in the distance, and wondered.

Around that time, S. began smoking long-lasting cigars. It was amazing, the amount of smoke they could produce.

Stew told C. she should keep a list of newcomers, to get a global picture of the working force. So they began using the old censuses M. had made in the first days, and worked on from that.

Every night, O. went and brought C. a glass of water. Though most of the time, she refused to drink it.

The cries changed, around the lighthouse. And then, they stopped. And everyone began to forget.

 

 

And on.

 

 

Zora and M.'s father declared they were tired of the town and all its pollution. They bought the old buttery ruins, in the distant countryside, and would go and live there in a more natural setting. They would grow their own plants. Maybe even start a meditation group. M. waited as they departed, from the lighthouse highest room.

The library had been closed for weeks. Some books were missing, and the librarian was, too. The movies were gone. The last entries in the request file were: _If there is nothing out there, then what was that noise?_ by Vera Ferbert-Ding, for P.B. and _We will go together when you go_ , by T. Lehrer, from a S.S.

Checking the lists, Stew noticed more and more workers had been missing. He told C. they should be more careful about who came and went.

The production of permanent ink was launched on a massive scale. The reviews published in the city's newspapers had good photographs. Orders flooded in.

 

 

And on.

 

 

Deprived of her sister, and having not much to do, Zada joined one of the jazz bands in town. It appeared that sometimes, they played some unknown tune that made you feel quite conflicted.

 

Permanent ink asked for an increase use of seaweeds, and they burnt the remnants to extract sulfides. The red glow that was now permanently set upon the Factory intensified: it was sunny day and night. A cloud of coughing slowly rose and thickened above town.

 

When the first child died, everyone pretended they had no idea why.

 

As it turned out, the chemists now owned most of the town, and real estate prices escalated. While some workers managed to get access to the pristine, renovated houses, huts made of corrugated iron and red mortar began multiplying.

 

Eventually, S. grew tired of the inflation: business wasn't as flourishing as it used to be, and fewer people were buying meat. The years had gone by, and on one or two occasions, it occurred that someone asked for honeydew melons. So S. sold out his stocks, and then one day he got an offer he couldn't refuse and handed the shop to a wealthy chemist with a long name and no interest in grocery. Dicey Department Store had become too heavy a concurrence since a family from the city had it reopened. He doubted it would last, though: since their arrival, one of them had already started coughing. That being said, he didn't quite grasped which kind of business was to take the place of Partial Food exactly. As his car left the road, he caught a furtive glimpse of small stacks of wood piled up into boxes. But then, feeling his perceptions might have been clouded, he shrugged it off and drive away towards new investments.

The Black Cat Coffee was left untouched. No one understood how the mechanisms worked. And C. simply refused to have a look at it.

They sold barrels of ink, to all kind of clients. Money poured in. But, strangely, more huts kept on budding on the edge of town.

 

 

And on.

 

 

O. was supposed to try and find private funding for her project. But people would always ask about the weeds. Since J.'s departure, she had trouble focusing. It was as if she was constantly expecting a bell to ring. She almost didn't noticed that time went by.

No one dared to mention they should hire a new librarian. But there was no school anymore. For some time, it just went on, and then someday, because of the weather, or out of boredom, M. sneaked in the closed building. Someone must had seen her doing so, for after a few days, there was a knock on the door. When she opened cautiously, she was faced with an eight years-old with frizzy hair and a bow-tie. She looked up at M. and said:

“There are some questions I'd like to ask you.”

So she let her in.

More of them came. Gradually, M. took out the old maps, the old microscopes, the old picture books. But they were so numerous. And some of them so pale, so weak. Always asking so many questions.

It often happens that something develops so progressively, cause and consequence, cause and consequence, that it gets very hard to notice. Even once you have, it is almost impossible to point out when it began, and to guess when it would end. And then it just goes forth. Forth. Forth.

 

One day, one more time, one last time, M. faced the dark corridors, the plush seats, the ticking clocks and the mute secretaries, and went to see C. in her office. Faced her one last time, and told her something was very wrong. And, because people really don't change that much, C. didn't even blink. She didn't nod, either. She just waited. So M. went on. People were sick. That wasn't normal. There was something, something in the air, or the water, in the food maybe, and she would investigate. And they should, probably could do something about it. She must have noticed. Surely she knew. C. looked by the window, toward the lighthouse, and said she could work on it.

An expedition of earthboats was witnessed heading towards the former Invisible Aquarium.

M. taught literature, mathematics, biology, arts, a bit of sociology and geography. But no chemistry or economics. And she never, ever mentioned history.

But then again, most of them only wanted to learn how to read.

 

One morning, C. asked her staff to go and ring the old bell. At first they did not understand. She insisted, and when it was finally done, Stew looked at her with something like awe.

After a while, people stood and stared out of their houses or huts with curiosity. A good part was hearing the sound for the first time, and had no idea what to associate it with. Groups formed, and a natural movement sprang in the streets. When it reached the townhouse, they finally saw the trucks.

In a dark subterranean lab, O. heard the distant ringing somewhat distorted, as if she was under water. She froze and then, slowly, cautiously, knelt down and crept under her bench.

M. was in the lighthouse when it began. She ran to the door, and locked it.

Somewhere in the Black Cat Coffee, a trapdoor shut.

A good observer would have noticed that, despite his martial attitude, while standing next to the black piles, Stew's hands were trembling.

 

C. stood on a truck, for everyone to see. She grabbed something that looked like a bunch of black alga, and brought it to her face. The alga held two large bubbles. They were all gas masks.

C. explained that, considering the nature of most jobs in the Factory, it would be safer for everyone to wear them at work, at least part of the time. It would protect them from potential emanations, since the new formula integrated chemicals that could interact hazardously. Someone, an anonymous voice in the crowd, asked if they had been in danger. No, she didn't think so, but wanted to make sure her employees avoided any kind of risk. She was researching on a safer work environment, but it didn't mean they hadn't been safe enough in the first place. The masks should protect the exposed workers until she identified which component was problematic. They needn't worry. She was taking care of everything, and she would soon fix it.

So everybody shrugged and began to queue.

When Stew implied later that she shouldn't have told them the truth, for it would endanger her image, she gave him a queer look and said she would never lie about such a thing. She was responsible for these people, and would restore their health to its initial conditions. She did not care about her image.

Some small miracles, we don't know if we should be grateful for or not. She said it with such a tone of voice that Stew Mitchum, who had always avoided to dwell too much on the past, who had no ideals that reached higher than a quiet, predictable world, who thought he had nothing to expect anymore, Stew Mitchum began to believe, when everyone else had long lost faith.

 

 

And on.

 

The face of the town changed. At certain hours, it disappeared almost entirely, dissolved in an invisible mass of black masks, each of them neatly closed upon itself and hermetic.

It never does to reopen the old wounds. Stew decided they needed something to sanctify the working hours and the resting ones. It would order the day and this way, people would really know where they stood. It would be sensible and tidy, and the shifts to the night teams would become clearer. So they put the old bell back in use.

This is when M.'s writing began to change. There were no new adventures for Young Cap Boy and his companions, no cunning villains nor exciting mysteries. Everything suddenly seemed more normal, and at the same time slightly different. Young Cap Boy and his friends saved their hometown. The Queen in the Red Tower invented some new kind of paint, and the economy flourished anew. They sold a great deal of it, but not too much, for their primary concern was, and always had been, to bring back the sea. As soon as the Paper Knight discovered a solution, they began working on it. The Medusa Brothers continued to share their hang-glider in harmony. At some point, the Queen realized she couldn't go on with her marriage to the Burger King, and they talked about it. The Queen was becoming too distracted – so the King left, and later met Isa Bell, a courageous girl who liked books ans old horror movies. And one day, after putting one last pipe into place, water poured into the empty bay: the Queen cried in joy, and kissed the Paper Knight. After some years, they had children with simple names. They all had children. And Young Cap Boy? He ran between the library and the lighthouse, publishing books and helping Bowler Amber with her successful almanac. They were happy; maybe not too happy, in order not to provoke destiny, but they managed. So, sometimes, they were all lost and guilty about Slippery Billie, whom they did not know how to save from herself. They would fight, and disagree. They would have trouble organizing things in town, and knowing how to deal with workers in a fair way. But they would let them in charge, too. They wouldn't be stranded anymore. The world had come back with the tide, boats were sailing again, bringing something new along with fresh and crisp air. They would become part of a larger story. And thus it began:

“There was a town...”

 

She saw it sometimes, in the eye of one student or another. Before they began coughing.

 

One day, the odd, careful people that sometimes crossed town ceased to come at all. And then, another wind came to blow. P. was said to be dead.

 

What happened to his taxi remained, for a long time, unclear.

 

And so, it went on. Oh, they had started from nothing, that was very true, and they had tried so hard. C. had never stopped working. But one has to compromise. She thought she was treating them decently but then… she always was an heiress. O. stayed there for her nonetheless. She never realized she would have liked to be something more than her business partner. She was so very helpful. So she sent her away to supervise the restoration of the Colophon Clinic, saying that she would be useful there. They needed a place to care for the sicks. At the Factory, she was always, somehow, leading her to distraction.

 

The lighthouse, useless as it was, remained M.'s property through the years. This is one of the few things C. never tried to buy. For old time's sack.

 

 

On a general scale, life has no end. Unfortunately, it just goes on.

 

 

Nevertheless.

At the end of the day, a remarkable chemist, a remarkable girl who wasn't one anymore, stood on the cliffs, above the plains of clusterous sand, finding that she missed the sea.


End file.
